


A Good Problem To Have

by apolloisntdead (wingedhead)



Category: Cobra Kai (Web Series)
Genre: Daniel opens Miyagi-Do and it's going good but then Johnny shows up so you can guess what happens, Divorced Daniel LaRusso/Amanda LaRusso, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, He's a lawyer for the sole reason that he's got law right in his name and I think I'm hilarious, Johnny never opens Cobra Kai, Karate Dads, M/M, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, don't worry he's still a dumpster fire but it's more internalized
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:49:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27737938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wingedhead/pseuds/apolloisntdead
Summary: "Why'd you leave?"Johnny shrugs, floundering a little for an answer that isn't oversharing. “Didn’t have anything keeping me here, I guess,” he says finally, and leaves it at that.(AU. 34 years later, Johnny Lawrence, attorney at law, comes back to the Valley. He's counting down the minutes till he gets to go back to his carefully built life in San Francisco, till Daniel goddamn LaRusso grabs his script and flips it.)
Relationships: Daniel LaRusso & Johnny Lawrence, Daniel LaRusso/Johnny Lawrence
Comments: 52
Kudos: 129





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this fic mostly plotted and written out, so hopefully i'll be able to update at least once a week; im thinking every friday? we'll see. anyway i hope u enjoy this!

“Yeah, Carol, I’m - no, no, I just landed. Haven’t had time to check my messages yet.” Johnny’s never really gotten the hang of this Bluetooth business, and the wireless earpiece she makes him wear is just another thing to be annoyed about. It’s digging into his skull, molded to the shape of his ear, and as he steps out of the airport and onto the curb, scanning for an empty cab in a sea of idling yellow, the bright Californian sun beats a migraine into wakefulness. It was overcast and a little drizzly when he left SFO, and the heavy wool coat he's wearing is still kind of damp, which only serves to make Johnny feel hot  _ and  _ sticky.

The Ambiens are quickly wearing off as Johnny flags down a driver with heavy-lidded eyes and tan skin, a cigarette between his teeth. He jabs a thumb at Johnny to  _ get in _ , and Johnny barks the address of his hotel while he clambers gracelessly into the back of the cab, hugging his duffle bag and briefcase to his chest.

The cab peels away from the airport, pulling out onto the freeway. There’s some generic pop garbage on the radio. The driver taps the worn leather steering wheel in time to the beat, and it sets a tempo to the headache pounding between Johnny’s ears. He's sweating bullets in his stuffy suit, and the driver gives him a concerned look in the rearview mirror before switching on the air conditioning. Johnny’s shoulders visibly relax as the cold air rushes in to fill the space that the heat had sucked from the inside of the car. He tilts his head back against the seat.

Carol is still talking, but he sort of tunes it out, throwing in an occasional  _ Mhm _ and  _ Oh, yeah, for sure _ every now and again so she doesn’t ride him for not paying attention. His head is screaming bloody murder. After another minute or so, Carol pauses suddenly, says something about another call coming through, and she puts him on hold before he can reply. Relief billows under his skin.

“First time in the Valley?” asks the driver, drawing the cigarette from his mouth with two practiced fingers and exhaling smoke through pursed lips.

Small talk. God, Johnny hates small talk. He never knows what to say. He doesn’t know what to say  _ now _ , either. He could lie, say he’s just here on business - which is mostly true, because he  _ is  _ just here on business - but he really doesn’t want to field any questions right now. Whatever answer he gives, he's just inviting more conversation. But the alternative is to pretend he hadn't heard the guy and ignore him entirely, but that just seems needlessly rude. All he wants to do is get to his hotel room, let a scalding hot shower work the knots out of his back, and finish his prep as soon as possible so he can pass out till morning.

He shakes his head with a little sigh, deciding to be honest. “I grew up here,” he says, though his voice is guarded.

The driver’s eyebrows flick up, and his gaze meets Johnny’s in the mirror. “Yeah? Huh." A pause. "You don't look it.”

He’s a youngish guy, seems well-mannered enough. Johnny doesn’t have the heart or the energy to snub him, even though he'd  _ really _ like to. So he frowns instead. "I left a long time ago."

This is counterintuitive to what Johnny wants to be doing right now, which is just to sit in silence and focus on getting his head ready for the meeting. But the thing is, he can't help but engage. For all the quiet he craves, he's always felt compelled to fill it.

"Why'd you leave?"

Johnny shrugs, floundering a little for an answer that isn't oversharing. “Didn’t have anything keeping me here, I guess,” he says finally, and leaves it at that.

The kid hums, but says nothing. The hum is a weird mix of acknowledgement and understanding, before his clear green eyes drop back to the road. He replaces the cigarette between his teeth.

The silence is already awkward, or maybe it’s just him. Johnny bites his lip as he watches the palm trees and manicured lawns and low-rise stucco condos flash by, blurs of color set against the familiar burn of Valley sky. It's a different blue from San Francisco, even though they're only an hour apart by flight. The Valley still seems like it's trapped in time, perfectly untouched by the tide of glass-shrouded skyscrapers and roaring bustle of People Going Places that San Francisco overflowed with.

Johnny felt out of place in the city, and he feels out of place here, even though he looks the part easy enough.

He used to belong here, used to blend right in; the blue of the surf in his eyes and the sun-bleached gold of the sand in his hair. He's a Valley kid alright, one glance at him is a tell-all, except over the years he's… gotten kind of washed out, like an old photograph being bled of its color. His clothes are all black and white and crisp lines and starched within an inch of their lives. He's got a watch on his wrist that, back when he and his mom were still slumming it, would've easily covered a month's rent and groceries. Hell, he's wearing shoes he bought at a place so fucking fancy, they probably hadn't even heard of canvas sneakers till Johnny’s sorry feet walked a pair in.

The point is, Johnny's from here, but he doesn't look it, because he reached in and pulled out the parts of him that didn't fit, the parts of him that hurt, till he was more empty space than person. He doesn't mind. At least he can  _ function  _ now. Things could be a whole lot worse.

“So what do you do now?” the kid asks. Johnny sucks on his teeth.

“Um. I’m a lawyer.”

“Cool.”

_ Cool,  _ repeats Johnny to himself internally. It  _ is  _ cool. He’s doing good for himself. He leans back in his seat, humming a little.

It’s been a fucking nightmare getting to where he is. Sid had thrown him off the top of the hill and he’d had to drag his way back, knuckles bloodied, teeth gritted, but he made it. He’s pleased to say he hasn’t spoken to Sid in years. Hasn't needed or wanted to.

After he'd scraped together enough money from handyman jobs and all kinds of grunt work to put himself through Cali State, Johnny managed to graduate, then found himself a low-level job with a firm in San Francisco: Dealy & Bennett, attorneys at law. That turned into a high-level job, which brought more offers from bigger firms to his doorstep, all of which he turned down for a partnership at D&B. Now he’s edging for a bigger piece of the pie, name partner, and this merger he's been sent to oversee between two fairly successful auto dealerships here in the Valley could really turn the tide in his favor.

Steve Covall --  _ fucking Steve -- _ had the same idea, unfortunately, but Johnny knew he had him beat. “ _ Dealy, Bennett, and Lawrence sounds way fucking better than Dealy, Bennett, and Covall anyway, _ ” he'd bitched to Carol almost every day since he found out what Steve was up to. Carol had sighed in her loving but wearied way and told him that he practically had it in the bag, he just needed one more push before the annual general meeting - less than two months away.

Sort of poetic, then, that that push would come from here, the place he's been running from his whole life.

They pull up to the hotel, a modest-looking place not too far from the city. There’s a boarded-up little store on one side, a mostly empty parking lot on the other. Johnny thinks he can taste the salt of the beach on the barely-there breeze, but maybe he’s just going slightly crazy. He thanks the driver quietly and pays him, even throws in a generous tip for not being too much of an asshole, and then he’s standing on the sidewalk in blistering sunlight, any soothing effect the aircon had on him vaporizing almost instantly. His duffle and briefcase are by his feet.

He tugs on the collar of his shirt in an attempt to get some circulation going, but this only manages to thoroughly disappoint. Around him, people are walking in groups of twos and threes and fours; families, partners, friends. They’re wearing cotton t-shirts and shorts, skin glossy with sunscreen, enjoying a beautiful day. Johnny feels a little twinge of anger at every single one of them. He doesn’t know why.

Once he’s checked in and showered, he gets the pedestal fan whirring at full blast and strips down to his undershirt and boxers, then falls backwards onto the bed, arms and legs spread-eagled. The air leaves his lungs in a soft _whoosh._ It's right then, hair still damp from the shower, that Johnny starts to feel a little drowsy.

It's a product of the last-minute decision to fly him out to San Fernando to be the one to dot the i's and cross the t's before the merger signing happened, coupled with the fact that he'd been taking so many extra hours over the past few months. Packing and finding a flight that would make it in time, plus getting someone who wasn't a total moron to cover his other clients for the week -- it had sharpened to a point where it began to weigh on him even now, even here where there was nothing he could conceivably do about it.

He knew with the meeting being tomorrow, he couldn't sleep for long, if he even did. He had to make sure everything was in order, had to make a good first impression so that hopefully the post-merger company would want to stick around as full time clients.

Just as he's drifting off, sleep growing warm at the edges of his subconscious, not yet close enough to reach out and touch, Carol’s voice comes sharply through the wireless (that he forgot he still had on). The sound of it punctures the silence and Johnny startles awake with a gasp, sitting up like he’s been electrocuted.

Carol, for her part, launches right back into her tirade, as if she had never stopped talking. Biting down on a groan, Johnny pulls himself to his feet so he can pace around his room, trying to stay awake and  focus on what she’s saying.

He loves Carol, really, but she’s  _ yammering  _ right now, and Johnny feels like he hasn’t slept in weeks. Probably because… well, he hasn’t _.  _ He waffles for a moment, before clearing his throat. “Hey, uh, can I - can I call you later, I really need to - mm." No dice. She's talking a mile a minute, and Johnny is  _ so  _ very tired. "Carol.  _ Carol. _ ” But she isn’t listening, going on like she has been from nine am about maxing his billable hours and how it’s only polite and in good faith to buy dinner or something for these clients, the latest jag-offs he needs to deal with before he can get out of here.

Johnny’s lip curls, his migraine hitting a crescendo, and he cuts her off mid sentence. “Listen to me, the clients aren't going to fucking  _ die  _ if I get a few goddamn minutes of peace and quiet, alright?”

She falls silent. Johnny instantly feels a hot pang of guilt for snapping at her. He winces, closes his eyes, and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry. I - it’s this place, just. I dunno. Has me on edge or something,” he mumbles, and Carol sighs. The apology sounds pathetic even to his ears. "Sorry," he adds again, for good measure, but that just makes it sound worse.

“ _ I know, _ ” she says, not unkindly. Johnny doesn't deserve a paralegal like her, never has, never will. A beat. _ “Don’t drink yourself to death out there, alright? I need my closer back in one week. _ ”

Johnny waves his hand dismissively, even though he knows she can’t see him. “I’ll be good,” he promises, still sounding apologetic. He crosses the floor to the window, works the plastic white blinds out of the way, and tries to wrench it open. The hinges are a little gummy, but they give way soon enough. Warmth from outside floods into the room, along with what little breeze is curling through the air from the sea, a glittering blue smear on the horizon, and Johnny sighs. He leans out of it a little, elbows on the sill, and watches the street he'd just been standing on. The sounds and sights and smells, they manage to soothe his frazzled nerves only slightly, but he’ll take what he can get.

He casts a lazy glance at the cars parked in their bays, at the locals going about their day, at the serene-looking little stores. The one perched on the corner of the street has a set of wide stone steps in front, and it looks older than the other buildings lined up beside it. The painted sign out front is flaking, the words too faded for Johnny to make out from his vantage point, but what’s interesting isn't the place itself. It's the car parked in front of it.

The machine is a butter-colored, glorious old convertible that seems to glow in the San Fernando sun. It stands out against the blacks and reds and grays of the other cars, and where the rest look slick and modern, this one is all curves and gleaming chrome. It draws looks from the pedestrians, the top pulled down to reveal leather seats and a white steering wheel. For such an old model, it's in fantastic shape. Johnny can tell even from where he's standing that whoever owns it knows just how to take care of it.

He also feels like he’s seen it before.

“Don’t worry about me,” he says to Carol, frowning a little, trying to place a name or a face or  _ something  _ to the deja vu building in his chest the longer he stares at the car.

“ _ Ok. Text me in the morning. Remember: the meeting is tomorrow, eight - _ ”

“- Eight pm sharp; the restaurant is fancy, so wear my good tie. I’m all over it, baby,” Johnny says, attempting to lay on some of his old charm, even though he and Carol both know it won’t work, not on her.

Right on cue, she huffs, and he can almost hear her rolling her eyes, too. “ _ Don’t you ‘baby’ me, John, you bastard. You better land this deal. We both know Steve’ll snatch it up if you don’t come through, and then  _ I’ll  _ be out on  _ my  _ ass.” _

Johnny clicks his tongue, opening his mouth to say something snarky about where Steve can shove it, and then he stops.

Right across the street,  _ Daniel fucking LaRusso _ climbs into the convertible.

( _ That’s _ where he'd seen it before,  _ of course. _ )

He's just like Johnny remembers him, give or take a few decades. There are four kids trailing after him, two girls and two boys. One of the boys, a wiry-looking kid in a hoodie, calls shotgun and hops gleefully into the passenger seat without opening the door. The others groan, but shuffle into the back without much protest. They’re chattering loudly, and a girl in the back shows something to LaRusso on her phone while he’s fitting the key into the ignition. He holds the phone a little further away from his face, squints at it for a moment, then laughs, all olive skin and brilliant teeth and stupid-looking nerd hair. The girl settles back in her seat, already tapping away at the screen with a grin on her face, and the next moment they’re tearing off down the road.

Johnny watches them go, eyes wide, unable to move or breathe. He feels like he’s just seen a ghost. In a way, he has. He's quiet for a long time.

Carol’s voice in his ear sounds concerned. “ _ John? Everything okay?” _

“Yeah. Yeah,” Johnny finally manages to say, voice sounding strangely hoarse and hollowed out, still staring at the faint plumes of dust that the convertible kicked up in its wake. “I’m fine.”  _ I’m not.  _ “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

He taps the little button that ends calls and rips the wireless out, throwing it onto the coffee table, before raking a hand through his hair. He slams the window shut, still in mild shock, and balls his shaking hands into fists at his sides.

The fan is still oscillating, the people on the street still milling about. Johnny had hoped and pleaded and  _ prayed  _ to any god that might be listening that he wouldn’t have to deal with anyone from high school while he was here, and apparently some wires must’ve gotten crossed. Of all the people that he’d rather not see, LaRusso was definitely on the very  _ bottom _ of that list. Hell, he'd pick bumping into Ali Mills again over  _ him _ .

Johnny feels seventeen again, watching LaRusso writhing on the mat across from him, the ref's warning ringing in his ears. He feels devastated again, picking up the pieces of the second-place trophy that Kreese had snapped like it was nothing, blood running thick down the front of his clothes, phantom hands tightening around his throat. He feels  _ afraid  _ again, watching everything he had go up in smoke, snatched in the split second it had taken for LaRusso to crack Johnny's face with his foot.

He digs the heels of his palms into his eyes and just breathes.  _ Meeting tomorrow. Focus. Focus. Just get through tomorrow. Don't - don't think about the rest of the week. Focus. On. Tomorrow. _

It works, a little. Johnny pulls his laptop out of his briefcase and starts reviewing the documents for Friday. He puts some Blue Öyster Cult on in the background, and it starts to drown out the nausea and anger roiling hot in the back of his mouth.

His phone lights up with a text from Carol a few hours later.

Carol (Work)  
  
Remind clients about dinner!  
  


Johnny, still kind of guilty about the way he spoke to her earlier, replies back immediately with a thumbs up emoji (sans any bitching), and sends a text to each party. He doesn't really know what he puts in the actual messages, just that it's overly polite and enthusiastic and not at all how Johnny feels, but it seems to get the job done, because in about twenty minutes he's received confirmation responses from both.

Inadvertently, he wonders about LaRusso. What's that guy still doing here? Were all those kids his? Johnny doesn't know whether to be the bigger man and hope he's landed on his feet, or give in to the tightening in his chest and wish for LaRusso to be having a supremely shitty life. The way he looked when Johnny saw him today, brief though it was, seemed to put him more into the former category than the latter.

Regardless, all he  _ really  _ wants is to not run into him again. Ever. The Valley's a big place, and hopefully this was just a one-off cosmic joke.

Absently, Johnny runs a hand along his jaw. It still clicks sometimes when he yawns too wide.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for all the love on the first chapter!! every comment and kudos fueled early posting of this one, and update schedule's being amped to twice-weekly.
> 
> oh one more thing, just as a blanket psa daniel does not cheat on amanda in this fic, but no specifics beyond that (to maintain intrigue etc). enjoy!

The next morning sees Johnny holed up in his room all day, ordering room service for meals and pacing so much he’s surprised he doesn’t wear through the carpeting and into the floor below.

Still kind of shaken from seeing LaRusso, he hadn’t really gotten all that much sleep, so he’s a little groggy when he texts Carol as promised. A few moments later, she sends him the address of the restaurant. Johnny recognizes the street, but nothing else. It’s a little disheartening, that the Valley’s moved on without him, but he isn’t surprised.

He casts a longing glance at the bed, and contemplates having a nap he can’t really afford to take.  _ Maybe just a… a real long blink,  _ he tells himself, and then before he knows what he’s doing, he’s curling up under the covers, and closing his eyes. His sleep is dreamless, dark, like being pulled underwater very slowly, and when he finally drags himself back to shore, to wakefulness, he is still exhausted. There are ten minutes left before he has to leave.

Johnny doesn't remember getting dressed or getting his stuff together or going downstairs to hail a cab. He just sort of finds himself walking up to the table with a polite, close-lipped smile and holding out a hand for the already seated woman and two men to shake. "Good to finally meet you in person, John," says the woman, smiling. Johnny almost believes her.

"Pleasure's all mine, Ms Bates," he replies, practiced, without inflection.

"Please. Amanda's fine," she says, and he nods. He's introduced formally to Amanda's COO, Anoush, then to party number two, Tom Cole. Cole makes up for all of Amanda and Anoush’s quiet and more, and maybe this is a partnership that'll work out after all, Johnny thinks, balance and whatnot. He thinks, but doesn't say.

They've ordered scotches for the table, and while Johnny would've preferred a beer, he won't say no to a free drink. He sits down, and takes a sip, and pulls out his laptop. "Alright," he begins, clearing his throat, glancing around at them. "Ready to get this thing going?"

Amanda gives him an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry, John, but we're just waiting on my, um, my husband to join us."

Johnny raises an eyebrow. "Oh. No, of course. Sure."

They wait twenty more minutes, and Johnny's trying to be cool, but this is getting kind of absurd. Who does this guy, this  _ asshole _ think he is, keeping everyone waiting? This is so unprofessional, so stupid, Johnny can’t help but feel a little bit irked. If he was the one running late, he knows he'd be getting so much shit for it. Some clients he really would love to punch right between the eyes, but he can't, because they pay him. So he just clenches his fist and waits till the anger seeps out from under his fingernails. This is one of those clients.

Taking another sip from his glass, he’s about to sigh and ask if they can just start and fill the guy in later on the stuff he'd missed, when the little bell above the door chimes annoyingly. Amanda's gaze flickers over Johnny's shoulder to the door.  _ Guess he decided to show up, then. _

“Took you long enough, Danny boy,” says Cole, and Johnny goes very, very still.

_ No, no no no no -  _

"I know, I know. I’m sorry, Tom,” says LaRusso,  _ goddamn fucking LaRusso _ , straightening his tie and sweeping his hair back deftly with one hand. Johnny twists in his chair and gawks _ ,  _ for lack of a better word. He refuses to believe that this is happening. LaRusso goes on, “Traffic was a total nightmare coming up from Sherman, apparently some kind of accident on the - ” Then he stops. Their eyes meet, and the restaurant falls away. It’s just them, just staring, and Johnny’s fingers clench harder around his glass, so tight he wonders vacantly if it’ll shatter.

LaRusso breaks the silence that lasted entirely too long and not nearly long enough. “ _ Johnny _ ? Johnny Lawrence? No way, is that you?"

They don’t move to shake hands. His tone is… strange, walking the tightrope between disbelieving and accusatory.

Johnny’s head is reeling, and he barely registers the question. How had he not known that LaRusso was going to be here? His name hadn’t been in any of the papers sent in for review. Johnny specifically remembered it, because the names of two auto companies weren't all that difficult to keep in mind. Bates Auto, and King Cole Auto. That’s  _ it.  _ There shouldn’t have been a LaRusso in there  _ anywhere. _ Johnny’s gaze lifts briefly to the ceiling as if he can find the answer hidden in the plaster, then looks at Amanda. “ _ That’s _ your husband?”

She nods slowly. Cole frowns. "You've met?" he asks.

"Something like that," says LaRusso, unhelpful as ever, sliding into the booth beside Amanda.

Johnny does his best to keep his expression placid, but there's only so much one man can take. This feels less and less like a cosmic joke and more like he’s on some elaborate universe prank show. He’s  _ not  _ into it.

Amanda's brow creases just as Anoush snaps his fingers, like he’s made an earth-shattering discovery. "Wait, you're  _ the  _ Johnny Lawrence?" he asks, eyes darting from LaRusso to Johnny, and it's all Johnny can do to sit and shrug and chuckle in the politest way he can muster.

The corner of LaRusso's mouth pulls up a little, and he's still watching Johnny with a weird expression on his face. Equal parts shocked and sort of dazed, and maybe something else behind his eyes that Johnny can’t really place.

Anoush looks at LaRusso. “This is the karate guy whose ass you kicked?”

Johnny blinks. Does everybody know? Hasn’t LaRusso had better things to talk about than a karate match that happened over thirty fucking years ago?

And like, it’s not so much the words that hurt (they do, don’t get him wrong; _It was an illegal kick_ , Johnny wants to say, but swallows it down with another gulp of scotch), but more the _way_ that Anoush says it that adds an edge to the sting. Like he expected… more. _This_ is the karate guy whose ass you kicked? _This guy_ , really? You kicked this lawyer’s ass when you were both teenagers? This is where he’s ended up? Supervising _your_ merger?

“I mean, if you wanna get technical about it,” LaRusso shrugs, his eyes glinting in the low light of the restaurant, “I kicked his face.” There’s a round of good-natured, if a little stilted, laughter, and Johnny can only manage the blandest smile.  _ Ha ha ha, hilarious. _

Amanda, lips pursing without amusement, covers LaRusso’s hand with hers. “Maybe we should get started,” she says in a voice that doesn’t really broker any argument, and he nods.

Then it’s Johnny’s turn to talk, and somehow he has the nagging feeling that everyone else is taking him way less seriously than they had been before LaRusso waltzed in. Probably imagining him getting a mouthful of mat at that tournament in the back of their minds.

Johnny can feel LaRusso’s eyes on him throughout the presentation, and it’s not the same as the way the others are watching him. They’re only looking because the words he’s saying are important, but LaRusso is just… looking. He’s pretty sure if he paused and asked LaRusso what the last sentence he just said was about, LaRusso’d be at a loss for words. Probably too busy sizing him up or something. Johnny can’t blame him. He might’ve been doing the same thing.

So instead of calling him out, he pretends like LaRusso doesn’t exist, and it works well enough. He manages to run through all his material without a hitch, including the balance sheet talk that isn’t even his department, but figures it’s worth knowing if only to impress Amanda and Cole. To his credit, they are impressed, and it balms Johnny’s steadily bruising ego.

“Does anybody have any questions?” he asks once he’s finished working through the terms and conditions of the agreement for what will hopefully be the last time.

LaRusso clears his throat, to nobody’s surprise, and all Johnny can think is  _ of course, why not _ . Everything else has been going so spectacularly, so why  _ wouldn’t  _ LaRusso have a question for him? Johnny’s willing to bet good money that whatever he wants to ask, it isn’t related to the merger at all.

“Yeah, I got a question,” he starts. “You’re a lawyer now? How’d that happen?”

Yep. Johnny should’ve put money on it.

He shrugs. “Same as everyone else. I got a degree.”

“I mean I hadn’t got you pegged as the lawyer type, that’s all.”

_ The lawyer type.  _ Did he think Johnny wasn’t cut out for this job? Was he just trying to rile him up? Either way, the words sit heavy in the middle of his chest, and Johnny frowns. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing, I just - “ here he pauses and glances at Anoush. “You should’ve seen this guy in high school. Farthest thing you could get from a lawyer _. _ ” Anoush squirms in his seat a little, and huffs a laugh that feels awkward and forced.

Johnny purses his lips, eyes narrowing a little.

Amanda, blessedly, decides to speak. “Alright, Daniel. Maybe you two can catch up later." LaRusso hums vaguely and takes a sip of his water. "John, first off," says Amanda, tone businesslike, "thank you for flying out here, really. Tom and I appreciate it more than you know. I think I'm all set for Friday; you’ve done a real good job with this. It’s been a relief, honestly, usually I have to cover most of this stuff on my own.” She smiles, and it is warm and grateful and  _ genuine _ , and Johnny can sort of see why LaRusso decided to settle down with this one. “I think dinner's in order now,” she goes on, and then glances at Anoush and Cole. “Unless you two have some questions?” They shake their heads. LaRusso is still watching him. Amanda smiles again, beaming and brilliant, a row of perfect teeth and not a single crease in her makeup. “Great.”

They get another round of drinks, and then burgers. Johnny eats a salad because it’s the food he’s least likely to make a mess of eating in front of clients. He tells himself he’ll get a real dinner at the hotel, or maybe swing by a dive bar or something.

The talk is banal, the kind that if you accidentally stop listening and tune back in after a few minutes, you wouldn't really have missed much. They talk about the weather, local elections, and why things are so expensive now. Cole makes a joke about having to figure out some new kind of marketing gimmick because "We certainly can't use  _ this  _ anymore, eh, Danny?" and makes a bunch of chopping motions in the air with his hands. LaRusso's smile tightens at the corners of his mouth, and Johnny wonders what  _ that's  _ all about, but doesn't pry. In fact, he doesn't really contribute to the talk all that much, content to work on his salad and nod along.

LaRusso finishes his burger. Amanda's telling a story about her son at summer camp, and Johnny isn't quite paying attention, but it's fine, because whenever Cole and Anoush laugh, it's a signal for Johnny to do the same, so they don't suspect he doesn't really care about all this. Amanda glances at him when she's done talking. "You got any kids, John?"

He shifts in his seat. "Yeah, one. His name’s Robby." LaRusso's brows inch up to his hairline, and Johnny keeps his eyes on the fork in his hand. "He's seventeen."

Amanda smiles and squeezes LaRusso's shoulder. "Our daughter Sam's seventeen, too." Johnny hums, and wonders vaguely if maybe Sam and Robby would've gotten along, had things been different. He doesn’t really know either of them, so there’s no point in wondering, and it’s a weird thought to have, all of a sudden. He shoulders it aside.

"So what's Robby think of San Francisco?"

"Oh. He, um. He lives with his mom in Chicago, so. I don’t know."

Johnny doesn't realize what the words out of his mouth are till he says them. All at once the table lapses into a silence that isn't very comfortable, and Amanda's bottle green eyes look like they're filling with pity. Johnny does  _ not  _ care for that at all.

Thinking about Robby and all the stuff he's missed out on with his kid just because Johnny hadn't been man enough to be  _ there  _ for him, it just… it makes him sad, okay, in a way he doesn’t really have the energy to be right now. He pushes some lettuce around on his plate, and keeps his gaze lowered. The quiet feels like it's solidifying into glass. Nobody really wants to talk about the lawyer’s estranged son, so why'd Johnny even bring it up? Couldn't he have just lied like a normal person?

"Well," LaRusso begins gently after a long, stifling moment, "I'm sure he's proud of you."

Johnny's startled eyes dart to his. LaRusso doesn't know him, he never has, and there's no reason for him to say something like that. But here he is, saying it.  _ I'm sure he's proud of you _ . His jaw is set with conviction, and Johnny's almost alarmed by the sight of it.

If he says it to cut the tension (because surely he can’t mean it; people don’t say things like that, certainly not to strangers), well, it works. In one smooth exhale, everyone’s shoulders seem to relax.

"Thanks," says Johnny, maybe a little weakly, and then Anoush is guiding the conversation onto a different track, asking about everyone's plans for the weekend. So it goes. Johnny is still kind of stunned, and stays that way through the rest of dinner.

Once they pay the bill and part ways in the parking lot, assuring each other that they were sufficiently enthused about the big signing on Friday, LaRusso grabs his elbow just as he’s walking to the curb with his hands in his pockets. Amanda and Anoush had shared an Audi back to the office, and Cole had taken off in the opposite direction, heading up Mulholland in his big black SUV. “Hey, Johnny, wait up,” he says, sounding a little winded, and Johnny wrenches out of his grip purely on instinct.

“What do you want?” he asks, his initial surprise flattening into a frown.

LaRusso blinks, and takes a step back. “Nothin’, I - I just wanted to ask if you'd like to catch up sometime while you’re in town. Get a drink or something, I dunno.”

Johnny’s frown hardens. “A drink. With you.”

He shrugs. “Yeah. For old times’ sake.”

“When?”

“Well, are you busy now?”

Johnny narrows his eyes. “I’ve had a long day,” he says, but of course LaRusso isn’t buying that for a second.

“Come on. I’ll even throw in a real dinner if you want. It's on me. God knows that salad was a joke.” At that, Johnny lifts an eyebrow.

“Maybe I like salads.”

“No, you don’t.”

Johnny sighs. “No, I don’t.” A pause. “Jesus, wipe that smirk off your face, you look like an idiot.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, comments and kudos are loved! thanks for reading <3


	3. Chapter 3

Since Johnny’s the one without a car, they pile into LaRusso’s yellow convertible, and the rumbling of the engine block cuts right to the center of Johnny’s chest. It feels fucking  _ good _ , thrumming up through every point of contact his body has with the car and holding him securely in place, crushing him fantastically against the seat. It reminds him of his old Firebird, but it’s definitely not the same. Almost, though, and that’s good enough for right now.

They pull up to a little place seemingly carved right into the wall. Apparently LaRusso knows the owner. They sit side by side at the bar, and the lights are dim, but the music is low, so Johnny doesn’t have to lean in to hear him when he talks. Johnny gets a couple slices of pizza, greasy and cheesy and  _ incredible _ , and he has to remind himself not to make any weird noises when he takes the first bite. He only sort of succeeds. LaRusso orders him a beer, something called a  _ Coors banquet _ , while he nurses a martini - "ice,  _ ice  _ cold" - and absently pokes at the olives at the bottom of the glass with the little toothpick.

Johnny figured it'd be at least a little bit awkward, if not  _ super  _ awkward. What do they have in common to discuss, outside of an interest in a sport that nobody cares about? Really, Johnny's just here for dinner. That salad really was a pile of leaves and nothing.

It's almost surprisingly not that awkward. Of the two of them, LaRusso is louder, talks more, and he never lets the conversation drop for a second, seemingly summing up  _ every  _ event that took place in his life over the thirty four years that gild the space between them like specters. Johnny listens. He doesn’t mind it as much as he thought he would.

"... but the shop didn't really work out, and like I said, I'd just blown all my college money on the lease and the inventory. It didn't really make sense to do college full-time, so I part-timed at a used car dealership in Reseda. Kept telling myself it was only for a little while, just to help pay my way around the house, and that I'd apply for college as soon as the next semester began, but it just never seemed like the right time to do it, " LaRusso sighs, then impales an olive on the end of his toothpick, popping it into his mouth and chewing slowly. "Anyway. I got good at selling people stuff they didn't really need, so I just kept doing it, and it sure didn’t hurt that it paid well," he adds, and Johnny rolls his eyes, but the corner of his mouth pulls into a faint smile.

"But Mr Miyagi and my Ma, god, they gave me so much shit for it. Not going to college, I mean. Nothing, y'know, undeserved, but still."

Johnny’s eyebrows lift. "The old man gave you shit?"

"In his own way, yeah. I mean, he didn't have to say anything. He'd just… give me this look when I came back from the dealership, like he felt guilty about the whole thing, like - like it was his fault. Which made me feel  _ great  _ about myself."

They’re quiet for the first time in a while. Johnny exhales. "Sounds like a fun time."

The laugh that punches out from behind LaRusso's teeth is mirthless, but there's an unmistakable wistfulness in his voice when he replies, "Yeah, it was." It betrays just how much he must miss his sensei, and Johnny finds that even though he can’t really relate to that, he can make a ballpark guess as to how much it hurts.

Maybe he should say something. Offer condolences. He doesn’t know what to say, though, that doesn’t make him sound disingenuous. So he settles for gently bumping LaRusso’s shoulder with his own, and LaRusso cracks a tiny smile when he does.

This shitty lighting is doing things to LaRusso’s face, and Johnny’s only just now noticing the gray at his temples, the lines bracketing his mouth, the arrogant lilt to his chin that is everything short of  _ begging  _ to be punched. He definitely looks older, but his eyes don’t have that familiar slope to them that all adults their age have; the kind of bone-deep tiredness that Johnny recognizes in everyone else, himself included. No, LaRusso’s eyes are the same as they were in 1985, an unchanging fixture in his face, bright as they’ve ever been. Johnny kind of hates it. It’s safe to say that he’s aged well. For such a gangly, stupid-looking kid having turned into a gangly, stupid-looking man, that is.

Johnny picks up a little stray piece of crust off his plate and starts to crush it between his thumb and forefinger. "So I take it selling people stuff they don’t need is working out for you."

"Hm? Oh, no.” He shakes his head, eats another olive. “ I quit my job a few years ago."

Johnny's hand stills. "What?"

LaRusso thinks for a long moment before he replies. His brow creases a little, and he’s staring at his hand around the stem of the martini glass, but Johnny can tell he’s not really looking at it. “I didn’t like the person I was becoming,” he says finally, and his voice is quiet. “I knew I had to change something, or I’d wake up one day and not know who I was at all.” He sighs, somewhat unsteadily, as though inwardly steeling himself, and takes a sip of his drink. “Then Amanda and I split up, because she didn’t love who I wanted to be, and that turned out to be the kick in the ass I needed.”

_ Oh. Divorced,  _ thinks Johnny, chewing the inside of his cheek, and at least that part of the puzzle makes sense.

“We worked out that I could still keep some of my shares, but she’d get CEO. She wanted to change the name, too. I didn’t mind, I just wanted out. I moved into Mr Miyagi’s old place. And it’s been… good. It’s like - like I can recognize myself again, you know?”

Johnny hums in agreement, but he doesn’t know, not really. He wonders if he’s still able to recognize himself, and he’s uneasy to realize that he doesn’t know the answer. LaRusso’s gaze swings to Johnny, and it is the full weight of those eyes that makes Johnny feel like his bones are being laid bare to the sun. He looks away.

“What do you do besides sitting around, then?” he asks, and his voice seems too loud, but maybe that’s just him.

LaRusso rolls his eyes. “Mr Miyagi had a dojo in the back of the house, and for a while my thing was just fixing it up. I used to go there a lot, because those trees need watering and pruning and attention, but the rest of it got… a little run-down while I was pulling myself together. Deck had to be re-stained, pond had to be weeded, fence had to be repainted, stuff like that. Kept me occupied for a few months. Then… I dunno, it just. Felt like a shame to keep it all to myself, so I opened it up. Started teaching a few kids every other week. That was... “ he pauses and hums as he thinks, pulling his lower lip into his mouth. “Oh, two years ago? Now I'm lucky enough to do it full time."

He seems sort of hesitant to reveal this, reticence in the line of his jaw and shoulders, in the stiff way he twirls the empty glass in his fingers, and why wouldn’t he be? Karate is what drove the wedge between them all those years ago, what poured salt into the wounds they’d given each other. Bringing it up might be what finally sours a night that’s been going alarmingly well. Johnny is glad for the beer, to have something to do with his hands that isn’t fidgeting. The silence seems to lose its easy quality, becoming heavier, like fog.

LaRusso seems to pick up on this, and clears his throat a little. “You still do karate?”

“Take a wild fucking guess,” Johnny replies, bitter, hollowed-out. LaRusso lifts his palms up in a gesture of submission, like he’s trying to placate a startled animal, and that makes Johnny sigh. No point taking out his pent-up karate frustrations on the guy sitting next to him. He rolls his lip between his teeth and lets his eyes linger on the bartop, blowing out a breath through pursed lips. This time, he makes sure to keep the level of his voice even. “Nah. Between work and… well, work, I never really had the time. Tried teaching my kid when he was little, but there’s not a whole lot you can cover in a weekend.”  _ Plus, he never seemed to enjoy it when I did, but I’m not about to tell you that. _

LaRusso clicks his tongue. “I hear that,” he says, and when he chuckles, the sound is dry and empty, and - and maybe they’re more alike than Johnny thought. “When Sam was younger it was easier to get her into it because she looked at me and she saw some kinda superhero.” LaRusso’s eyes turn fond when he reminisces about his daughter, the creases in his smile are gentle, fingers loose around the stem of the glass, and then all at once they turn sadder, regretful, just like they had when he'd talked about his sensei earlier. “Divorce managed to poke a hole in that. Downgraded me into a middle-aged car salesman with an identity crisis. It took her a few years to come back around to me - to  _ it _ ,” he corrects, and since Johnny’s a decent guy, he makes no comment about the freudian slip, “but thankfully, she doesn’t hate it anymore. I don't know what I would've done if she did.”

“You sure about that? From what I remember, your karate is just a bunch of breathing and arm-waving,” Johnny quips, a faint smile curving around the mouth of the bottle raised to his lips.

“First of all, that's kata, and second of all, fuck you,” LaRusso retorts, suppressing a grin of his own and shoving Johnny in the shoulder.

He asks about San Francisco, about law school, and Johnny gets another beer while he tries to be as vague and non-specific about the details of his life as he can. There’s a pleasant buzz under his skin as he tells LaRusso about his condo, his corner office, his car - everything that he’s worked himself to the bone to have and keep. He avoids mentioning Shannon and Robby (more so because he’s ashamed of himself than he is of them, and he doesn’t want LaRusso to know that he’s a fuck-up of a dad). LaRusso nods and hums and keeps his eyes on Johnny’s. Johnny doesn’t need to see it to know; he can feel it, in that weird way that you feel when a person you know on the subway is staring at you, trying to remember where they saw you last. LaRusso probably doesn’t even know he’s doing it.

“You ever miss it? Karate, I mean?” LaRusso asks quietly, probing the thing that might make this whole evening unravel. Johnny takes a sip. He thinks about Cobra Kai, about Kreese, about blood in his mouth and split knuckles, his mom bandaging him up, Sid telling him he isn’t worth the dirt under his shoes. He thinks about his friends, the mildly codependent family-esque unit he’d carved out for himself inside Kreese’s dojo, people who’d stuck with him through everything. He thinks guiltily about how the only ones he’s really kept in touch over the years with are Bobby -  _ Pastor  _ Bobby, now - and Jimmy, who teaches at a school in the Bay Area. Last he heard of Dutch was that he was in State Pen at Corcoran, and Tommy was an accountant or something in Sacramento.  _ You ever miss it?  _ His throat goes weirdly drier the more beer he drinks. LaRusso is still watching him.

Karate was more than a sport. It was everything. It made him who he is today. Johnny doesn’t want to think about who he'd be or where he'd have ended up without it. The beer tastes like absolute piss going down the back of his throat, and he decides to answer truthfully. It’s the least he can do when LaRusso is buying him dinner, he reasons. He studies the peeling label on the bottle in his hands, because he really doesn’t want to be staring at LaRusso any longer than he has to. He clears his throat.

“Yeah, man. I miss it. Like a goddamn limb.”

There is a pause, and Johnny starts to regret being honest, fighting the urge to glance up at LaRusso’s face to try and gauge what he’s thinking. LaRusso’s never been able to keep his expression clear of what’s in his head, and the only reason Johnny doesn’t look now is because he knows he’s done way too much looking already.

“You should come by the dojo sometime. If you want,” LaRusso says, and that’s what makes Johnny’s gaze snap up to his, brows raising in surprise. “You could meet the kids, check out some of the breathing and arm-waving we get up to.” Johnny snorts and rolls his eyes, taking another sip of his beer. His voice is teasing, but there’s not a hint of mockery in his expression at all. He - he wants Johnny there.

Johnny finds he already knows what he wants to say the second he hears the offer, but he waits for a moment before replying, not wanting to seem overeager. “Okay,” he says quietly, like he’s gradually warming to the idea, nodding slowly. “Sure.”

LaRusso’s lips quirk up in return. “Okay. Let me give you my number; you can call me when you’re free.” He holds out his hand for Johnny’s phone, and Johnny passes it to him. It’s not password-protected, and LaRusso gives him a disapproving frown about it, but he puts his number into Johnny’s contacts and sends himself a text without giving Johnny a lecture. His back pocket  _ dings _ with the notification, and he palms Johnny’s phone back to him with a satisfied little hum.

Johnny finishes his drink, wondering briefly why his skin seemed to burn a little when LaRusso’s fingers brushed his. It’s probably nothing. Johnny’s hands must just be cold.

“Thanks,” says Johnny, as they’re leaving the bar. LaRusso waves his hand dismissively.

“What are old pals for?” he asks wryly, climbing into the driver’s seat, and Johnny flips him off, an unamused smile playing on his own mouth. Johnny gives him the address of his hotel, and then they’re pulling out of the lot.

LaRusso’s unbuttoned his sleeves and rolled them to his elbows. His tie is crumpled in the pocket of his jacket, and said jacket is tossed carelessly into the back seat. The wind twists its fingers through his hair, messing it up, and he looks so comfortable here, with the top down, one hand on the wheel, one elbow out the window. He looks good.

They’re driving in silence, and it’s only awkward if Johnny thinks about it, so he doesn’t. He fields some texts from Carol, and then starts chipping away at his overflowing inbox, when LaRusso hits  _ play  _ on the tape deck and some song that Johnny doesn't really recognize comes on. His eyes light up like a kid at Christmas, and it is obviously a song he loves, so he cranks up the volume.

Johnny frowns. “What?” asks LaRusso, when he glances at Johnny only to find incredulity instead of approval at the music. “It's Mr Mister. You don't like 'em?” Mild indignation curls the edges of his voice.

"What the hell kind of a name is  _ Mr Mister? _ " Johnny asks, frown deepening.

"Well, what the hell kind of a name is  _ Metallica? _ "

“Hey.” Johnny levels a glare at him, surprised at the dig that came literally out of nowhere. " _Watch it,_ LaRusso \- "

"It does!"

"Does  _ not _ , it's badass, it's got metal right there in the - "

"It sounds like the label on a can of paint or something, and every song is basically the exact same."

“What the -  _ no _ , they - look, name two Metallica songs that sound the same.”

“Don’t have to, because they’re  _ all  _ the same. Mr Mister, on the other hand - ”

"Oh, please, they aren’t even on the same level. They’re barely in the same room."

LaRusso tongues the inside of his cheek, humming thoughtfully. "You're right," he nods finally, and before Johnny can bask in the victory, he says, "Mr Mister is better."

"You son of a bitch, you take that back."

LaRusso simply looks at him sidelong, laughs, and then starts hollering the chorus of  _ Kyrie  _ along with Richie Page. Johnny never wanted to backhand someone across the mouth more in his entire life. He folds his arms over his chest and grumbles a litany of curses at him, but LaRusso either doesn’t hear him, or he doesn’t care.

Johnny grimaces. “I sure hope you’re not feeding your students that bullshit, LaRusso, or they’ve got bigger problems to worry about than landing illegal kicks.”

“They land their kicks just fine,” LaRusso says, eyes gleaming in challenge, and Johnny doesn't miss his omission of the word  _ illegal,  _ “probably because their opponents don't dislocate their knees before they do it.”

Johnny huffs, head leaning back against the seat, hands in his lap. “Whatever. It’s been like, thirty years, man.”

“Wh -  _ you’re _ the one who brought it up.”

“I feel like I already apologized for my thing, though.”

“Right, sure,” he says sarcastically. “All I remember is you crying and giving me the trophy _ , _ ” he adds, smirking a little.

Johnny rolls his eyes and shifts a little so LaRusso can’t see the embarrassment unraveling inside his chest. “Of course I was crying, you moron, you broke my nose.” He thinks that getting kicked in the face is a million times better than this conversation.

“Didn’t sound like it was broken when you told me - hm, what was it you said? _ ” _ he asks, teasing, and they both know what it is that Johnny said. It’s not like they’ve forgotten; how can they? But Johnny isn’t about to give him the satisfaction of hearing it from his mouth again, so he mimes zipping his lips. That only makes LaRusso grin wider. “Oh, that’s right. You said,  _ you’re alright, LaRusso _ ,” he says, and he pitches his voice comically higher and weepier in an attempt at mimicking the cadence of Johnny’s that day at the tournament.

God, he’s so fucking  _ stupid  _ and  _ aggravating _ \- 

Johnny doesn’t regret reaching across the gearshift to punch LaRusso in the shoulder. “Shut the fuck up,” he says, and LaRusso laughs. The sound is like music in itself. 

The same can’t be said for his  _ actual  _ singing, though, as Johnny is quick and dismayed to discover. Not only are LaRusso's opinions terrible, he sings  _ wildly  _ off-key. It’s an auditory trainwreck, to put it kindly. Like, if he was as bad at karate as he was at singing, then he must be the shittiest karate teacher in the entire Valley. The song has since changed to something only a little bit more familiar to Johnny, but he won’t admit it, because if LaRusso likes it, then it has to be awful.

"You know, if I wanted to hear a bunch of screaming street cats," Johnny mutters, loud enough for LaRusso to hear, "I would've just stayed in San Francisco."

" _ Baby, I think tonight, we can take what was wrong and make it right _ ," he sings, happy to ignore Johnny completely, and Johnny sighs wearily, rolling his eyes. " _ Baby, it's all I know, that you're half of the flesh and blood makes me whole, I need you so… _ "

Johnny wrinkles his nose and covers his ears with his hands when their eyes meet again, and that manages to drag another grin out of LaRusso, but it doesn't deter him from launching into the final chorus with his whole chest. It is incredibly annoying.  _ He  _ is incredibly annoying.

(A different man than Johnny might have found it endearing, but luckily that man isn't around to hear LaRusso committing this blatant crime against humanity, so in the end nobody finds his terrible singing endearing at all. Not even a little bit. Certainly not Johnny.)

When they pull up to the hotel, they sit in the car for a moment in amicable silence. The engine is idling, and LaRusso’s hands are still on the wheel. He looks like he’s about to say something, so Johnny waits for him to get it out.

“I had fun tonight,” he says finally, and Johnny’s surprised to find that he agrees.

“Me too. Turns out you’re not a total pain in the ass,” he replies.

LaRusso grins. “So you could say that I’m…  _ alright _ ?”

Johnny groans, head dropping to his hands. “I take it back,” he says, doing his best to hide an exasperated grin. "I take it all back. You’re the worst." He unbuckles his seatbelt, grabs his briefcase from the floor by his feet, and climbs out of the car as LaRusso grins through a half-hearted apology. 

“‘Night, Johnny,” LaRusso calls from the car as Johnny steps out onto the curb.

“Drive safe,” he says, waving back - force of habit; he doesn't really care.

“I have no control over that.”

_ So fucking annoying.  _ “Die, then.”

LaRusso gives him a big proper smile, bright eyed and cheeks dimpling, before snapping off a two-fingered salute and driving away into the night.

It’s maybe the first real smile Johnny’s gotten from anyone in years, and the sight of it makes him feel strangely short of breath. He’s still thinking about it when he finally goes to bed almost two hours later, after he’s done replaying the entire night over in his head.

Maybe he was never really mad at LaRusso after all. Maybe that guy really is alright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter wouldve been way longer just bc their banter is so easy to write and they literally cant shut up its great
> 
> might have to make a tumblr at this point, but till then im on twitter @superblums


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay in posting, this week was manic!! here's a long one to make up for it. thanks to everyone reading, you are all cherished beyond words (yes you!!) <3

_ This guy is such a dick _ , thinks Johnny when he wakes up the next morning to a text from someone stored in his contacts as  _ King Karate _ .

King Karate  
  
What the fuck  
  
Hello to u too  
  
Good to know ur being mature  
  
I don't know what ur talking about :)   
  
U know what I'm talking about bastard  
  
"King Karate"?? Ha ha SO funny  
  
Do u hear me laughing  
  


_ Fuck off,  _ he replies, the corner of his mouth pulling just a little, although he'd never admit to it.

King Karate  
  
Fuck off  
  
:))  
  
Busy today?  
  
Class later  
  
Oh  
  
U can come by I'm sure the kids won't mind  
  
I'll pick u up at 3?  
  


He types and retypes his reply for a long time, before settling finally on a simple, uncomplicated:

King Karate  
  
I'll pick u up at 3?  
  
Ok  
  


He tries to distract himself with work while he waits, and only mostly succeeds. He hadn't really packed for an impromptu trip to his high school karate rival's dojo (who would've seen  _ that  _ coming), so all he has is the t-shirt he slept in and a pair of jeans. He studies himself in the mirror. Maybe he should shave.

He blinks, and wrinkles his nose. No  _ way  _ is he shaving for  _ Daniel LaRusso. _

A few hours later, there's a flash of silver in the sunlight from the window, and the loud, throaty purr of the convertible all but rattles the pane as Johnny spots LaRusso pulling up to the curb. He meets him there. LaRusso is wearing a plaid shirt, jeans, and - are those  _ motherfucking chelsea boots? _

“I see you got your wife’s shoes in the divorce,” says Johnny by way of greeting, climbing into the car. LaRusso rolls his eyes without anger, and there is something fighting to get out of his jaw that Johnny could optimistically classify as a grin.

“You could never pull these off in a million years,” he replies, "what with your big clown feet."

“These big clown feet could still kick your ass, Danielle, just drive the car."

LaRusso hides a smile _ ,  _ and makes no comment as he throws the car into gear and guides it down the road.

They swing out onto the freeway, the sky blushing a deeper blue the higher the sun climbs. Johnny keeps stealing glances at LaRusso, at the slope of his nose, the line of his jaw, the way he’ll stick his tongue out between his teeth whenever he changes gears. They don’t talk, but it isn’t weird. It certainly doesn’t feel like how you’d think hanging out with the guy who stole your girlfriend in high school would feel, that’s for sure. It’s… kind of nice.

There’s a feeling underneath his ribs, warm in the way that touching something blisteringly cold for the first time is warm, and it is spreading out from some point in the middle of his chest very slowly. It's shaped like guilt, but Johnny knows guilt, and this is… something to the left of that. He doesn’t know what to call it. He shifts a little in his seat, one hand twisting in his seatbelt, and focuses on breathing around it. If LaRusso notices, he doesn't say anything.

They exit the freeway, then cruise down Sherman Oaks, before taking a left and navigating a narrow strip of road that leads to a lacquered wood fence. He gets out of the car, pushes open the gate in a wide yawn, and climbs back in, easing his foot onto the accelerator to nudge the car over the slight lift in the road and inside the fence. LaRusso parks next to a neat row of cars all carefully tucked away underneath individual rain jackets. Johnny can make out the silhouette of a Caddy, but he isn’t sure about the rest. He wonders vacantly where LaRusso managed to get his hands on these, then he reminds himself that the man used to run a dealership, so they probably weren’t all that difficult to find.

LaRusso climbs out of the convertible, pocketing the keys and shouldering a gym bag that he’d grabbed from the back seat. He leads Johnny into the house;  _ his  _ house, and Johnny’s skin is crawling a little with anticipation. There’s a set of windchimes suspended near the jamb, and they clatter when LaRusso pops the door open.

“I know it might not look like much,” he says, trying for lighthearted but betrayed by the way he keeps pulling his lower lip into his mouth, “but honestly, Amanda was more of the decorator between the two of us, and… most of this stuff was Mr Miyagi’s that I didn’t really have the heart to get rid of.” He sighs through his nose as he toes off his shoes by the door, and Johnny takes it as a sign to do the same. “All I’m saying is don’t judge me too harshly.”

“I won’t.” 

The house is single-storied, with fusuma doors divvying up the place into different rooms. Johnny casts a sweeping glance around the living room. It’s neat, in shades of green and tan, and it’s nothing like Johnny could’ve ever pictured LaRusso living in.

For one, it looks like someone picked up a house from Japan and dropped it into the middle of San Fernando, because while the layout and decor is distinctly  _ not  _ Californian, there’s parts to it that are undeniably from the Valley, undeniably from Newark, too. The couch is leather and well-loved, but the mat in the center of the room is tatami. Beside a painting on one of the walls (a watercolor of some kind of crane), is a shelf with an autographed catcher’s mitt.

There's parts of it that are undeniably  _ Daniel _ , too. Like the mug on a coaster that Daniel had forgotten to clear away, with a cartoon drawing of a pineapple in a thong and sunglasses on it that means it must be from the novelty stores by the beach. Johnny smiles a little at the sight.

Most of all, the place brims with sunlight, voluminous and like the color of liquid gold, and it can’t be further from the pale watery light that trickles through Johnny’s condo, even on the sunniest days.

It doesn’t make much sense all together, but knowing that all of this is unapologetically Daniel’s, knowing that he’d taken such a leap of faith to keep these parts of himself, well. It makes it all seem… kind of beautiful.

(Daniel’s looking at Johnny like what he’ll say about the house matters, somehow. As if anything Johnny’s ever said should matter to him.)

Johnny whistles low. “Badass,” he says appreciatively, and LaRusso’s expression breaks into a grin, brighter than the glow around him. Johnny’s stomach tightens, and he drops his gaze almost immediately. He really fucking wishes LaRusso would stop making direct eye contact when he did that.

“C’mon,” says LaRusso, a hand at Johnny’s elbow. “I’ll give you the fifty cent tour.”

There’s four bedrooms in all. Two belong to the kids when they come over, one used to be Mr Miyagi, and the other is his, he explains. Weirdly enough, LaRusso’s room looks the least lived in of them all. The corners on his sheets are military sharp, and there’s one of those tiny trees in a stone pot on the end table, just underneath the window. The walls in his room are bare.

The hallway, though, is lined with photographs: pictures of his kids, his mom, a few newspaper articles in frames proclaiming the “Dojo-less Mystery Champion” who won the All-Valley in '85, and some black and white pictures of a much younger-looking Daniel with his arm around his old sensei, but they don't look like they're in California. There's also a hanging scroll with script in… what is that, Japanese?

“Means  _ balance _ ,” says LaRusso.

“Of course it does,” mumbles Johnny without vitriol, which earns him a shoulder check and an eyeroll.

They head to the back of the house, the part that leads out into the yard. Here, there are screens and tatami mats, a rack for shoes and backpacks, and a shelf with karate trophies. Three of the trophies stick out to Johnny in particular. “You won the All Valley  _ thrice? _ ” he asks, brows raising, a tight curl of jealousy in the pit of his stomach.

LaRusso shakes his head. “Nah. Just the two. The other one belongs to one of my students.”

Johnny isn’t proud of the way his bitterness lets up almost immediately when he hears that. He isn’t proud of the way that his brain snatches up and zeroes in on “ _ just the two _ ”, either. He's also embarrassed that his first thought was that while he was breaking his back in the real world, LaRusso was still kicking people in the face, enough to win himself another trophy. He jams his hands into his pockets. “Two is… pretty good.”

_ I won the same number of tournaments, too. Before you came along.  _ But that part goes unspoken.

“I don’t really count the second one,” LaRusso admits, and there is a stiffness to his jaw, a guarded edge to his eyes that hadn’t been there before.

“Why not? Win’s a win, right?”

LaRusso gives him a funny look, like he can’t decide what to say, scrubbing at his face with one hand. Finally, he shakes his head. "Nothing. I don't wanna get into it." He casts one more glance at the trophies, before ducking into a little room off to the side, probably an office of some kind. “I’ll be back in a second. Make yourself at home,” he says, and the way he breathes is measured, like he has to remind himself to do it. He takes his gym bag in with him, and shuts the door behind him quietly.

Johnny looks around the room, the  _ dojo _ , realizing with a jolt that this is the first time he’s stood in one in over three decades. His eyes catch on a gi in a glass case, mounted up on the wall near the sliding doors. It’s very clearly LaRusso’s gi - or at least, it used to be - because it’s got another one of those twisty trees against an orange sunset on the back.

Johnny recognizes that fucking tree, remembers it as sharply as the day he first saw it: when LaRusso and Bobby Brown were circling each other on the mat in the semis; when LaRusso was starting to look less like an unaffiliated pity party and more like a threat.

He remembers the last time he saw it, too: standing over LaRusso while the other boy was facedown, leg bent at an odd angle, the referee shouting a warning for illegal contact to the knee. That was before it had all gone to shit, right on the cusp of it.

Johnny looks away.

He hears, faintly, the sound of something big hitting a lot of water, then laughter, the commotion coming from the backyard, and Johnny very nearly startles ( _ nearly _ ). Does LaRusso have a pool back here? Johnny wouldn’t even be surprised if he got one installed when he moved in. More importantly, what (or who) fell in?

The door slides open just then, and two kids, a boy and a girl, are stumbling into the dojo, arms around each other, laughing. They’re soaking wet. Johnny vaguely recognizes them from when he saw LaRusso two days ago outside his hotel (has it really only been two days since then?), and really wishes LaRusso could come back out right about now.

“Hey, Dad, guess what Miguel just - oh.” They stop in their tracks, properly registering Johnny. The girl frowns. “You’re not my dad.”

Johnny gives her a polite, slightly uneasy smile. “Sure hope not,” he says, and the boy snorts.

“Where is he? I thought I heard his car pull up earlier,” she asks.

“He’s in there. Said he'd be back in a minute.” Johnny nods at the door that LaRusso had disappeared behind.

The girl, LaRusso’s daughter (Shannon? Was that her - no, wait, that's Robby's mom. What's her name? Sa… Samantha? Sarah? Was that it? God, Johnny hopes one of them will say her name so he won't make an ass of himself), she’s still frowning, piercing blue gaze darting over Johnny skeptically. Johnny wishes she’d stop doing that. What is it with LaRussos and all their fucking  _ staring _ ?

“I’m Miguel. Diaz. This is Sam,” says the boy (thank GOD for him), probably picking up on the weird tension in the air and deciding to do something about it. He offers Johnny a wide smile. “I’d shake your hand, but I don’t wanna get you all… you know, pond-y.” Sam rolls her eyes, and Johnny’s very nearly struck dumb by how much like her dad she looks when she does that.

“Diaz, did you fall off the wheel again?” asks LaRusso before Johnny can introduce himself, emerging from the office.  _ Speak of the devil,  _ he thinks as LaRusso stands beside him, arms folded over his chest, the corner of his mouth pulling in faint amusement. Johnny has to do a double take.

LaRusso’s wearing a  _ gi _ .

Miguel looks affronted. “Sam fell too!”

He’s wearing a _gi._

“I fell because  _ you  _ fell,” interjects Sam.

_ He’s wearing a gi. _

“You’re wearing a gi,” Johnny says dumbly, brows raised.

LaRusso glances at him, bemused, then narrows his eyes at Miguel, who makes a sheepish face, ducking his head. “Yes, Sensei,” he sighs, “I fell off the wheel again.”

_ Sensei.  _ Johnny has to keep from mouthing the word to himself, just to feel the weight of it again. He’s still processing this whole gi thing, and really, it’s absurd how much time he needs, because it’s not like he hasn’t seen LaRusso in a gi before. He has. He’s just… not used to seeing  _ this  _ LaRusso in a gi.

It’s white, it’s full-sleeved, it’s got the tree on the back, right between the shoulders. His belt is black, it cinches his waist, and - oh. Hm.

Daniel is… he's leaner than Johnny thought he was. Better built. Less of a skinny little twerp and more of a… regular twerp.

LaRusso crosses the floor to a set of screen doors on the other end of the room. Johnny hadn’t even realized they weren’t actually walls till LaRusso pries them open to reveal a stack of gis, rolled-up mats, and what looks like an insane amount of cleaning supplies. While he’s grabbing towels for Miguel and Sam, he launches into what sounds like a well-worn talk about _feeling not observing,_ about _looking within,_ about how _the wheel demands_ _trust._ Johnny doesn’t know what the hell this wheel business is, but it _screams_ LaRusso, has his exact flavor of pretentiousness and tiny trees written all over it.

Miguel hangs onto his every word, toweling his hair dry with his gaze fixed on LaRusso. There’s a determination in his face that Johnny appreciates, because it sort of reminds him of his own.

"Who's your friend?" asks Sam, snapping Johnny out of his reverie. LaRusso smiles then, one side of his mouth pulling up higher than the other.  _ Friend, huh _ , thinks Johnny. He isn't immediately repulsed by the sound of that.

“This is Johnny Lawrence. He and I, uh, knew each other in high school," he says, hand on Johnny's shoulder. Johnny thinks it’s probably the most understated way to describe what they had, but he doesn’t correct him. "John, this is - well, this isn’t my whole class, I'm sure the others are on their way, but yeah. This is Miyagi-do Karate.” The pride in his voice is palpable.

LaRusso and the kids talk some more, and Johnny is content to watch them, to watch LaRusso (whose hand is still on Johnny’s shoulder). “Do you do karate too, Mr Lawrence?” asks Miguel just then, and Johnny blanches a little.

“Not anymore,” he replies.

Miguel’s eyes widen. “Hold on, did - did you and Sensei LaRusso do karate together?”

Daniel laughs, and Johnny bites the inside of his cheek. “Something like that.”

When the doorbell rings, more students come piling into the dojo, talking loudly and stripping off their bags and shoes. Johnny’s introduced to so many new people at once that he can barely remember all their names. They’re all around the same age, apparently in Sam and Miguel’s classes at West Valley High, and then before he knows it, LaRusso is herding them out to the backyard.

Johnny sits down on the deck, feet dangling over the edge, watching the kids spread out on the uneven, manicured lawn and bow, LaRusso standing in front of them and bowing in return. He takes them through some kata and stretches, and they move in sync with him. His expression is relaxed, feet planted firmly in the ground, all reserved strength and serene eyes.

It's been years since Johnny's seen something like this, since he's been so close to it, and it hits him somewhere right in the meat of his heart. It feels familiar and new, because this isn't the style of karate he was taught, but it's still  _ karate _ ; different, but same.

LaRusso looks perfectly at home here, as easily a part of the landscape as the trees or the pond or the large chunk of black granite in front of which he stands. Johnny envies him. For someone from the East coast to fit right in like he's always belonged here, and for Johnny to feel like he sticks out no matter where he goes, the sight of him makes his chest clench.

Daniel a natural with the kids as he guides them into a set of kick combinations, strolling between the rows to correct their posture, showing them how to throw their hips into each kick, how to shift their weight to the back leg just enough that they can get one leg up higher, but not so much that they’ll overbalance. He’s endlessly patient, smiling gently, eyes lighting up when he circles to the front and calls out, “ _ Aits!”  _ and the kids all run through the combo without a hitch. Daniel’s gaze meets Johnny’s from across the yard, and something flashes across his face, before he turns to the students and asks them to split up into pairs to work on blocks. He jogs over, and Johnny quickly schools his expression.

“You’re going to spar with me,” says LaRusso, and Johnny is already protesting.

"I haven't in years. I can't," hisses Johnny, trying to dig in his heels. LaRusso is having none of it.

"C'mon, the kids'll love it, and I haven't fought someone on my level in ages. It'll be fun." LaRusso's voice is low and his hand is gripping Johnny's wrist.

Johnny's gaze flickers to the students watching them over Daniel's shoulder. Those who have stopped working to look their way seem confused, but intrigued. "LaRusso," he says slowly, "I  _ really  _ don't wanna do this right now."

Challenge gleams in Daniel's eyes and in the set of his jaw.

"You scared?"

Johnny rolls his eyes, but something under his skin thrills.

"No, I'm not scared. We're both way too old for this. And I can't fight in jeans."

"Yeah? Or are you just afraid you're gonna lose?"

_ Do not let him goad you do not let him goad you do not - _

"More worried that you're going to embarrass yourself in front of your kids. Don't they respect you?"

_ Damn it. _

Daniel grins.  "I have a spare gi you can borrow," he says, and that's that.

* * *

"Don't you have anything that isn't a boys' XS?" asks Johnny, merging from LaRusso’s office dressed in a white gi that’s not exactly tight for him (he’s bigger than Daniel, but between him skimping out on going to the gym and Daniel teaching karate for two years, Johnny’s not  _ that  _ much bigger) but he can’t resist the tease.

LaRusso rolls his eyes. “Take it off if you’re so pissy about it,” he says, and Johnny raises an eyebrow. 

"I'll take it off after I've kicked your ass."

"Guess you're never taking it off, then."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"'Cause you're never going to kick my ass."

"Wow, LaRusso. I'm devastated," deadpans Johnny, following Daniel out to the backyard. "You really know how to dish it out."

The kids all pause in their training and watch Johnny with wide eyes as he and LaRusso stand beside each other up front. "Everyone, Mr Lawrence here has very generously agreed to demonstrate a fight with me," says LaRusso, "I want you all to pay attention to how we take points, and think about whether we could've done it differently. Okay?" He looks at Miguel. "Diaz, you wanna call it?" Miguel's brows shoot up to his hairline and he scrambles to his feet eagerly, nodding. He clears his throat.

"Face me. Bow," he says, and LaRusso chuckles, but bows anyway. Johnny does the same. "Face each other," Miguel goes on, "bow -" they do, "-fighting positions!"

Daniel turns to him, spreads his feet, tucks his chin, raises his hands. Johnny lowers into a stance like he's sliding into a warm bath or embracing an old friend. He meets Daniel's gaze over his fists, and he's seventeen years old again, but so much is different. So much has changed. There's no fear in those brown eyes anymore.

" _ Fight!" _

Johnny's kind of rusty at first, muscles stiff and reflexes a little sloppy. He's not as fast as he used to be, so it hardly comes as a surprise when Daniel flips him onto his back and snatches the first point. He takes a moment to talk the kids through it, why he had struck where he did, how Johnny left his flank exposed, how he could've blocked it. He's very methodical, and Johnny has to admire the kind of patience he has for this. Fuck knows what kind of a teacher Johnny would've been if it came to that.

The next round has Johnny finding his groove, hips twisting easier, hands coming up quicker, ducking and swerving like he's been doing it for years. He doesn't pull punches because Daniel is always meeting him halfway, block for block, kick for kick. It's like nothing he's ever done before, and the surge of adrenaline in his veins makes him feel like he's operating completely on an autopilot he thought he'd left behind ages ago. It takes longer for Daniel to score the second point, but the heel of his palm strikes Johnny in the chest, Miguel's voice rings out, and Johnny is gasping a little through a grin as Daniel pulls him to his feet.

Daniel walks his students through their movements again, and this time Johnny finds himself contributing to it, making little comments, demonstrating his posture slowly so the kids can take it in whenever Daniel shows them how he blocked a particular hit. He doesn't really realize he's doing it, not until he's finished explaining (and maybe slightly mocking) a sweep to the leg that Daniel had resorted to, and he catches Daniel staring at him with that blinding sunlight look in his eyes that Johnny forgets anything else he was going to say.

The next round, Johnny winds up to strike, the collar of his gi tugging open a little as he does, and he scores the point, somehow catching Daniel off-guard and knocking him backwards.

"Gettin' tired, old man?" he asks, helping Daniel to his feet.

"Dick," Daniel mutters, low so the kids can't hear him, but he's flushed red and grinning.

In the end, Daniel wins, but only because Johnny didn't get the chance to stretch beforehand. Daniel rolls his eyes and says, "whatever you need to tell yourself, man," and then the sun is turning the sky an oversaturated orange as the students finish up some more blocks, cool down, and head home. Daniel's gone to see them off.

Johnny's alone in the backyard, sipping at a bottle of water, sitting on the deck, one leg tucked underneath him, still wearing Daniel's gi, when someone clears their throat behind him (not alone, then). He glances over his shoulder.

"Sorry to bother you, Mr Lawrence," says Miguel, looking a little nervous, "but I… just wanted to say you were really cool out there, and - and I wanted to ask, that spinning wheel kick? Um, how… how'd you do it?"

Johnny twists to face him, trying to swallow down some of his own apprehension. He doesn't want to seem intimidated by the kid. "Hasn't your sensei taught you that kick already?" he asks.

"Not like the way you did it."

Johnny raises his eyebrows. It's a fairly basic kick that Miguel is talking about, but he's not about to deny him an answer. "It's all in the - the momentum you build up right before," he explains, getting to his feet. "Gotta keep one leg firm on the ground," he goes on, shifting into the stance, Miguel mirroring him without prompting. "And then you twist your hips in the follow-through." He demonstrates. "See?"

Miguel tries the kick, and his form is good, but there's not enough power in the kick itself.

"Okay, not bad. Don't hold back with the follow-through. If you hit with your toes, it's easier to block. Here, try," Johnny says and performs the kick, and Miguel deflects with his forearm like it's nothing. "Yeah?" Miguel nods, eyes wide. "You wanna get a little closer, hit with the arch of your foot or your heel, depending on what side you're going in with. Try it."

Miguel shifts forward, rotates his hips, and nearly catches Johnny in the jaw with his heel, but Johnny ducks out of the way. "See that? Less room to block."

"Yeah. Yeah, I see it." He grins. "Thanks, Mr Lawrence."

"Don't worry about it. Keep practising, you'll get there."

Miguel runs off out the back gate to catch up with his friends, and Johnny watches him go. The pleasant burn settling in his muscles means he's going to wake up sore and stiff as a board in the morning, but he ignores it for now.

"That was nice of you," says LaRusso's voice, startling Johnny. He's smiling crookedly, still in his gi, leaning against the doorway with his arms folded over his chest.

Johnny can feel his ears go red. "How long have you been standing there, you fucking weirdo?" he asks and picks up the water bottle to throw it at LaRusso's head. LaRusso, still smiling, catches it easily and cracks it open, taking a sip.

"You ever consider teaching? There's a couple kids here - Miguel included - who have potential, but I'm not sure the way I do karate is the way for them. Maybe you oughta give 'em a few pointers," says LaRusso, sitting down next to him. "I know I'd appreciate you keeping my kids from dropping me for the stuck-up pricks in Topanga," he adds with a grin.

Johnny is quiet for a long time. "Haven't considered it, no," he mumbles. "I think I've been avoiding karate, actually."

LaRusso's expression rearranges into a frown. "Why?"

"I don't know." He glances at Daniel out of the corner of his eye, and bites the inside of his cheek. "Other stuff just became… more important. Like, college, and - and then law school, then my job. Then my girlfriend and my kid, before I fucked that up. Then my job again. Eventually I just… quit karate altogether." He studies the grooves in his hands, swallows around the lump in his throat, and manages a tiny smile. "But… today was nice. Thanks for, you know, peer pressuring me into sparring." The corner of Daniel's mouth quirks up. The sunset paints him in fiery gold, and his hair is falling into his eyes. Johnny wonders why his first urge is to brush it back with his hand.

"Wanna go again?"

Johnny snorts. "Not on your life."

"What, you gettin' tired?"

"Yeah, kinda. We're pushing fifty, idiot, we get tired now."

"Come on, Johnny. One round, no points. Just us. For old times' sake."

Johnny heaves a world-wearied sigh. "... Okay, fine, LaRusso. Let's go."

Daniel's grin is brighter than the fucking sun.

This time, it feels different. They don't talk or pause to explain their process. They move like clockwork, like dancing. The only noise in the backyard is the soft grunting from them both and the sound of skin hitting skin. It's mesmerizing, sparring with Daniel, and the more they fight the more Johnny starts to feel like he can recognize himself again. It gives him the same familiar rush that winning a case does; that rush being the only reason he got into law in the first place, and Johnny realizes that he's been chasing the high of karate all his life, looking for it everywhere else but the source.

Daniel is incredible. Johnny is moved to silence by the set of his jaw, the line of his shoulders, the way the fading sunlight burns his eyes to brown glass. It feels like they spar for ages, but Johnny could care less. The thick ache disappears from his muscles, and the fighting, it turns into poetry.

He pins Daniel to the ground. They're both gasping. "Point, Lawrence," he says, smug.

Daniel's eyes glint as he hooks his ankle around Johnny's, grabs a fistful of his gi, and flips him onto his back. Johnny's eyes widen and he lands with a  _ thunk _ , the breath leaving his lungs in a hard whoosh.

"Point, LaRusso," he murmurs, a grin pulling at his lips.

There's a moment where they're just staring, Daniel leaning over him, short grass and tiny chunks of pebble digging into Johnny's back. Johnny watches that smile, and wonders what would happen if he just leaned up and closed the space between them.

Not that he wants to, no, it's just a sudden intrusive thought. Like when you're holding something fragile and a little voice in the back of your mind whispers to smash it to the ground. It'd be absurd to do it, as every rational part of your being would argue, and in all likelihood, you won't go through with it at all. But for the briefest second, you entertain the idea, amuse yourself with it, before you let it go permanently. No big deal. No harm done.

The thing is, Johnny can't seem to let it go.

He feels like his heart might beat right out of his chest, and he can't tell whether it's because of the exertion or something else entirely, something he doesn’t even want to think about. To admit how terrified he is, right now, would be worse than the feeling itself.

The moment passes. 

Daniel pulls himself up, then pats Johnny's knee to get him moving. "Come on, big guy. Inside. It's getting late. You can shower if you want, maybe we can get a drink or dinner or something?" He's already walking back to the house.

Johnny feels like his stomach is plummeting. He rolls to his feet, biting the inside of his cheek. "I'm kinda beat, man. Could you just drop me off, if that's cool?"

Daniel gives him a confused frown, but it is quickly replaced with a smile. "Oh. Yeah, sure. No problem."  
  
It's beginning to feel like a fucking problem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOW ABOUT THAT TRAILER THOUGH

**Author's Note:**

> baby's first cobra kai fic! comments, kudos and feedback are wildly appreciated
> 
> find me on twitter @superblums


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